


if tea can't fix it, it's a serious problem

by sherlocked10097



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kinda Crack, Ogling, Scene Rewrite, Sheriarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 03:32:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13802514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked10097/pseuds/sherlocked10097
Summary: A re-write of the ReichenTea - with a wardrobe change.





	1. Chapter 1

"Not Guilty. They found him Not Guilty! No defense, and Moriarty’s walked free. Sherlock. Are you listening? He’s out. You know he’ll be coming after you. Sh-"

Sherlock couldn't waste time wondering how John had suddenly gone from perpetual confusion to prognostication; after the courtroom and the tension tangible through a thick wall, John was very likely right. Even as he examined rapid-fire the salient points that must have led to the verdict, he had to prepare for a visit.

Sherlock rose from the sofa, letting his dressing gown slide from his shoulders as he strode with purpose to his bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

There was hardly a trick anymore to picking this particular lock, Jim had done it so many times. Granted, he had to be more cautious this time, alert for sounds of life that might stop him. Sherlock wouldn't; Sherlock was _waiting_ , Jim was sure of that somehow, would bet his unarmed life that the detective had gone so far as to be sure Big Brother and dear John were busy elsewhere. For their own safety, one would think, but it was also respect at work. This was between them. Everyone else was destined to be collateral damage.

Jim cracked open the door to 221B, expecting to see Sherlock upon any seat or around any corner. That his own air of practiced nonchalance was going to waste for lack of audience irked him only a little, too focused on listening. _Poor timing to pop to the shops, Sherlock_ , he admonished mentally as he glanced around, eyeing the last apple in the bowl on the coffee table. Something symbolic about apples. And the fruit in the nick had usually been bruised.

Jim plucked up the apple, giving it an idle toss as a distant door opened.

"Most people knock," Sherlock stated, the words slurred for the start of a deep yawn which he continued to try to speak around. "But then you're not most people, I suppose."

Jim wouldn't let the mental smile reach his face. He gave the apple another casual toss as he turned - and dropped the damn thing.

Heard it roll dumbly away, as he fought temporary, privately pleased shock at the sight of Sherlock emerging from his room in nothing more than a sheet.

He had to hand it to Sherlock - he'd not expected this. To the point where his jaw dropped in slow motion by degrees, eyes roving over bared chest, legs, feet as he collected himself enough for speech. "Could say the same of you, about dressing for important meetings..."

"I was napping," Sherlock stated irritably. It was a lie, but he was a good enough actor that Jim couldn't possibly tell. Sherlock kept to a sluggish shuffle as he walked towards the living room, one hand holding the carefully gathered sheet closed. The other extended towards the stray apple as he leaned over, straightening again before tossing it back to Jim. "Slept right through the last of your court performance, but I was barred anyway," he shrugged. "Seeing as you're _here_ , it's clear how that ended.  Tea?"

Jim caught the apple mostly by grace of the throw's precision. He could hardly keep his eyes off Sherlock, the parts of Sherlock he'd never seen in person before. He'd never imagined wanting the man to have on _more_ clothes, but... "Your hospitality's unmatched," Jim said drily, rolling the apple against his palm, finally tearing his gaze away. He focused on the current assortment of knick-knacks on the center table, anything until it was safe to regard Sherlock again, which was only once he'd retreated to the safe distance of the kitchen.

Starting the electric kettle, Sherlock couldn't help smirking to himself. He'd known Jim would recover, but his initial surprise had been something to savor, proof of past deductions no matter Jim's expressed intentions. So long as he remained relatively decent in the sheet, he felt less exposed than one would think. _He_ didn't require a posh suit to handle all of this. "Consider it congratulations on your freedom. Should have known you'd find a way around video evidence undisputedly proving your guilt..."

Jim smiled. "But be honest, you're just a tiny bit pleased," he crowed, eyeing the violin left atop the table.

"What, with the verdict?" Sherlock asked blandly, distracted by the process of tea until he heard the telltale, barely-there screech implying the slide of fingertip against precious string. He didn't look over yet barked in quietly dangerous warning, "Hands off."

_Please, I didn't do it any harm. Oh, well._ Jim moved away from the violin, back to playing with the apple. "With me," he clarified. "Back on the streets." Sherlock wasn't giving him nearly enough attention, really. Much as he wanted temptation kept at a distance, he was inexorably drawn back to the barely-dressed detective, slowly ambling his way towards the kitchen. "Every fairytale needs a good, old-fashioned villain..." Jim jumped from minor clue to pure bait. "You need me, or you're nothing. Because we're just alike, you and I," he went on, admiring the outlines of Sherlock's body beneath the sheet. But he came no closer than to stand near the chair placed near what would have been a kitchen table were it not covered in scientific debris. "Except you're boring."

"Fascinating theory," Sherlock muttered as he poured the tea for them both, glad it was over, not much liking having his back to the man despite knowing the distraction such was likely causing.

"You're on the side of the angels, and even you find them boring," Jim reached for the teacup as Sherlock offered it. "Proof enough, that instead of alerting the authorities you're..." _Lovely collarbones. Should bite them_. Ah, focus. "Borrowing The Woman's tricks."

_Only because I felt sure they'd work,_ Sherlock thought in passing, but saying so would confirm that he'd not been napping after all. He simply rolled his eyes, lifting his chin in the direction of the living room. He'd follow Jim in, deny him the pleasure of ogling - but that plan backfired as the consulting criminal chose his own chair, rather than John's. He played unperturbed. By all of it. "Got to the jury, of course."

_Good boy. But still so obvious it hurts_. "I got into the Tower of London, you think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?"

Personal threats, definitely, but how, without those carrying them out being noticed, reported? Sherlock sighed. "Cable network," he declared, setting his cup and saucer on the side table before sitting, a quick downward glance ensuring the sheet still covered what it should before he reclaimed his tea.

Jim let the apple rest against the edge of the chair as he settled in, lifting his tea with a smile of appreciation for Sherlock's quick work. "Every hotel bedroom has a personalized TV screen," he nodded, sounding bored although the shifting of the sheet around Sherlock's thighs as he'd sat was _endlessly_ fascinating. "And every person has their pressure point. Someone they want to protect from harm." He sipped cautiously, enjoying the other's intent, eager gaze. "Easy peasy."

It was impressive, though no more so than any grade-A hacker could do, Sherlock reminded himself to tamp down the initial impression made. Jim could strut mentally all he liked. With any luck, Sherlock's own methods of distraction could still get him to slip something truly important. "So how are you going to do it?" he asked slowly, feeling the sheet slide further open against his chest as he lifted his cup, pursed his lips purposefully, dropping his voice to a lower register. "Burn me."

Seduction wasn't precisely Sherlock's purpose, nor did he assume the mastermind perched in his chair would be so disappointing as to fall for such - yet he relished the momentary loss of eye contact, the enlarged pupils following the newly exposed flesh.

How strong was James Moriarty's will, really? He'd like to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> (Should I finish this, or leave it to your imaginations? Weigh in on comments.)


End file.
